


A kiss with a fist (is better than none)

by Skoll



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Barebacking, But Loki and Tony give it a try, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Manhandling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sex will not actually solve all your problems, Tony Feels, Tony and Loki suck at feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skoll/pseuds/Skoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it goes with them: they fight, Loki leaves, Tony gets drunk, and when Loki comes back they pretend the fight never happened and move on until the next time--and there's always a next time.</p><p>This time, Tony refuses to pretend.</p><p>(Or: Elvoret asked me for angsty wall sex.  I delivered.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A kiss with a fist (is better than none)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elvoret](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=elvoret).



> This is a gift fic for elvoret, given as a thank you for all the amazing wonderful lovely graphics she's made for my stories. If you haven't seen her work, it's fantastic, check it out: http://obscyr.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy.

Tony's half way to full blown drunkenness already, by the time Loki slinks back in.

Loki, of course, makes no mention of the screaming, hurricane-force fight they had two days ago, the one that ended in Tony punching out a window and Loki disappearing into green wisps of smoke when Tony reached out his bleeding hand for his lover. Apologies are too mundane for Norse gods, and Tony knows by now that Loki deals with fights by pretending they never happened, and hiding whatever damage they caused behind a sharp-toothed smile. It isn't healthy, but then, fuck, what about this is healthy?

No, Loki just pops back in to Tony's life without a word at all, choosing to announce his presence by wrapping his fingers around the hand Tony's holding his glass in. It's the bandaged one, of course, and the cool grip of Loki's fingers hurts where they press against the tiny cuts on Tony's skin. “You know I dislike it when you drink, Stark,” Loki says, voice low and purring and close enough to Tony's ear that Tony can feel the god breathe.

Tony comes this close to asking, ' _yeah, and who died and made you king?_ ' and stops himself just in time. He chuckles, maybe a little bitterly, because that particular phrase meshes with Loki just a little too well for Tony's taste. If Loki's puzzled by why Tony's laughing, fuck it, let him wonder. “Yeah, well, if you're lucky I'll get cirrhosis and die a few years earlier. I thought you'd be all in favor of me finally getting out of your hair.”

Loki's grip on Tony's fingers tightens, and each point of contact with his soon-to-be-scarred hand flares with pain, sharp enough that Tony bites his lip to hold back any sound. “You make light of your own death,” Loki says, tone neutral and flat as anything.

Tony grins, and pulls his hand from Loki's hold to take another sip of his scotch. “Mortal, here,” he points out, not entirely sure of why he's saying this, except that maybe some little naïve part of him likes to think that if he died Loki would feel—something. Something real. Tony's not stupid enough to ask for grief. “Making light of death comes with the package.”

Quick as anything, in one of the moments that can't help but remind Tony of how human his lover really isn't, Loki's around the couch Tony's sitting on, and meeting Tony's eyes. The god's expression is sharp, accentuated lines and angles that, as usual, give Tony nothing to work with, no insight to hold onto and make sense of. Loki's eyes, usually the one clue Tony gets to his lover's state of mind, aren't showing anything but intensity. “Is this the great Tony Stark brought low?” Loki says, and now his tone is sneering and dismissive. “Drowning yourself in liquor and contemplating your end is a little pathetic even for you, Stark.”

Right. So they're going to start up this argument right where they left it, then—good to know. 

Suddenly, Tony just feels tired. Tired of fighting, or throwing around words meant to wound, when Tony's long since lost track of what the fuck they're even fighting about. Sometimes he thinks that when he and Loki talk, it's like they're speaking completely different languages, and the only words those disparate tongues share are the angriest ones. “If I'm so pathetic, Loki,” he counters, trying for bite and landing somewhere nearer fatigue, “then why the fuck are you here? Answer me that.” He looks straight into Loki's stupidly green eyes, and suddenly he's asking the question again, and this time the words sound wrecked without his conscious consent. “Why are you here?”

Loki looks, for the briefest possible second, taken aback by the question. Then the second's over, and Loki's every inch the trickster god, any genuine emotions buried behind layers and layers of false smiles and bullshit that Tony's given up on trying to part. “For the sex, of course,” he says, light and dismissive, and Tony can't tell whether that's meant to be insulting or not. Probably it is—this is Loki he's talking about, after all.

Tony laughs, almost involuntarily. “Okay, I might be a good lay, but there's no way even I'm good enough to justify this.” Loki is, but then he's a Norse god with a thousand years of experience, and even he's barely worth what the two of them do to each other when they aren't in bed. Not for the first time, Tony remembers what he had with Pepper: steady, fantastic Pepper, who fought for him. At the time, this—the heat of it, the way that Loki lost control during sex and muttered words in a thousand languages Tony couldn't understand, the tiny, finger-shaped bruises that Loki left behind and that Tony would cover with suits and press his fingertips into sometimes in slow meetings—seemed the better alternative. Far too late to change his own choice, Tony wonders whether he was right.

Tony wants an answer—what he gets is silence and a sneer, and Loki turning away to look out one of Tony's windows. “Right,” Tony says, because he is absolutely, completely done with this. “So this is what's going to happen. I'm going to go sleep this off, and you are going to get out of my home and not come back.” He doesn't wait for a response this time; say what you will about Tony Stark, but he isn't stupid.

But Loki, ridiculous, beautiful, infuriating Loki, has never done what Tony expected of him, and Tony probably shouldn't have expected him to start now. Loki's on Tony before he can leave the room, one hand tight around Tony's shoulder, this time not the sort of grip that Tony can break. “Stark,” Loki says, and turns Tony to face him. They're standing close enough together that Tony can see where the black ring around Loki's iris bleeds into the green, close enough that they might as well be sharing air.

“Interesting interpretation of getting the fuck out,” Tony says, suddenly feeling vicious. He wants to hit Loki, to watch him bleed—but, historically, hitting Loki has always done bad things to Tony's hands and not much at all to the god, and Tony doesn't want to be this person. He's never hit a lover before, he's never been the sort of man to think about it.

All Loki says is, “Stark.” Just that, just Tony's last name.

“Fuck you,” Tony says, and suddenly his voice is choked for no reason at all.

He's not sure who starts the kiss that follows, but one second they're standing a hair's breadth apart, and the next Tony has his teeth on Loki's lower lip and Loki's hands are fisted in his hair. Loki pulls Tony's head back by the hair, pulls his jaw up, pulls his mouth closer to Loki's, and Tony bites hard enough to taste blood. Loki makes a small, intrigued sound and his tongue darts out, licking the coppery taste away from Tony's lips and following the taste into Tony's mouth. Loki's kissing like he's staging an invasion, like Tony is something to be conquered, and maybe Tony is, but he doesn't want to be—Tony presses back, presses harder, forcing any possibility of gentleness out of the kiss, forcing them closer. Loki laughs into the kiss, and it's the same laugh Tony used to hear when he faced off against Loki in battle; Tony feels adrenaline-rushed and savage, feels like he could burn the world down.

Loki's hands skim down Tony's back and curl under his ass—he has about two seconds of warning, and then Loki's lifting him up, supporting all of Tony's not-insubstantial weight easily. Right. Norse god. It's not like Tony forgets that, but sometimes physical reminders send a shiver running down his spine—and right now, through the anger and the resignation and every other fucking thing, Tony feels that shiver. It gives him back a little of himself, weirdly enough.

Tony breaks from the kiss, just for a second, and huffs a laugh. “Can you at least do me a favor and pretend to need a wall?” he asks, because there's liking being manhandled by his significantly stronger lover, and then there's feeling like a child being held. No points for guessing which Tony prefers.

Loki takes one step, two, and then Tony feels his back hit the nearest wall. “Satisfied?” Loki asks, and arches one dark eyebrow—but it's clearly a rhetorical question, because instead of waiting for an answer Loki just bends his head and drags his teeth down the length of Tony's neck, and Tony has to close his eyes and ride the feeling out. 

“If you want to mark me, fucking— _ah_ ,” Tony loses his thought and his words and his sarcasm in the feeling of Loki's teeth, sunk in half an inch from Tony's carotid, too high for Tony to ever cover the mark with clothes. Loki sucks, hard, and fuck, Tony's going to be wearing this mark for a week, Tony's going to walk around looking owned. “Fuck,” he says, emphatically, and wraps his hands into Loki's hair, hard. 

“So eloquent,” Loki says, his lips brushing every smug syllable against Tony's bruised skin, and Tony retaliates, using Loki's impossible strength as an anchor and rolling his hips down hard against Loki's clothed cock. The god's hard, and getting harder; Tony uses his own erection as a weapon, knowing what it does to Loki to feel physical evidence of Tony wanting him, and rubs himself against Loki just enough to tease.

“Too bad your hands are busy holding me up,” Tony says, and grins filthily. He drops one hand from Loki's hair and runs it down his own body, the nonexistent distance between him and Loki meaning that Loki will also feel the caress. Years of having sex in strange positions let Tony pop the button of his pants without needing to look down, and when he drags his zipper down the backs of his fingers stroke down the length of Loki's cock. Pulling his dick out, Tony rubs his palm idly over the head and says, “It seems like a waste to do this myself.” He strokes down his length and writhes exaggeratedly into the motion, not so coincidently fucking himself down against Loki—yeah, it sends a punch of pleasure straight through Tony, same as always, but he and Loki both know he's exaggerating. Fuck it, Tony doesn't do anything halfway when he decides to put on a show. 

Loki's pupils widen, slightly but noticeably at this distance, and his hands tighten on Tony's ass as if in warning. If he means for Tony to stop, it kind of has the completely opposite effect—Tony rocks back into his grip happily, wondering if he's going to come out of this with handprints decorating the curve of his ass, and then thrusts back up into his own hand. “Come on, Loki, harder,” he instructs, pushing his tone toward pornographic—and then, because by now he fully knows what turns Loki on, he looks up at Loki through his eyelashes and runs his tongue out over his own lips, with a low moan. “I want to feel your hands on me tomorrow, you can do better than that.”

Tony can visibly tell the second that Loki snaps, the god's green eyes squeezing shut involuntarily and then flying open a second later. Then Tony's being dropped, staggering inelegantly into standing, and Loki's hands clasp vice-like around Tony's hips, spinning him and pushing him up hard against the wall. Chest to cock, Tony's pinned against the wall; he starts laughing, completely genuinely for the first time since Loki showed up. “Who's eloquent now?” he asks, smug and pleased as hell with himself.

“Allow me to even the playing field, then,” Loki hisses into Tony's ear, and his thin, elegant fingers drag Tony's pants off his hips, baring Tony to the knees. Loki presses one knee between Tony's legs and knocks Tony's legs apart, as wide as the restriction around his knees will allow, and before Tony knows what's going on Loki's dropped to his knees, breath ghosting against Tony's ass.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Tony manages to get out, and then he shuts up, because Loki's fingers are spreading him, and Loki's cold tongue is darting out to lap at Tony's hole. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Loki is too good at this—broad, teasing swipes alternated with darting thrusts, and then Loki seals his mouth over Tony and sucks, tongue making a wet, messy sound as it presses inside, _fuck_. Tony thrusts back unabashedly, trying to fuck himself on Loki's filthy tongue, trying to get more of everything. Loki brings up a finger to toy with the edge of Tony's hole as Loki licks into him, and Tony can't not whimper, this fucking close to begging. Loki keeps him there, pinned and wanting, teasing, and, “You bastard, come on, _more_.”

Then Loki's finger is inside, not quite a dry stretch with Loki's saliva but close to that, dry enough that Loki's skin catches at Tony in a way that doesn't—quite—hurt. Loki's tongue doesn't stop, and his finger hooks up and in and _there_ , and Tony literally sees white for a second and has to close his eyes, panting for breath. 

Tony reaches a hand down, knuckles scraping the wall he's pinned to, and fists his cock, needing relief. Loki's mouth is fucking everywhere, colder than Tony's skin, and he's curling two fingers into Tony now, stretching Tony and working his prostate relentlessly, and Tony is either going to come or he's going to die, messily, right here.

Loki breaks his mouth away and says, “No,” and then the long fingers of the hand not in Tony are curling hard around the base of Tony's dick, cutting off his orgasm before it can start. Tony's not pinned anymore, but with one of Loki's hands keeping him caught on the edge and the other still fucking into him he might as well be—he can't move, can't think, he's got enough in him for exactly one word.

“Loki,” Tony says, and then it's like a floodgate opened and he can't stop saying it. “Loki, Loki,” he says, and fucks himself down against Loki's fingers, greedily taking in a third when the fingertip runs a ring around his hole. Just that, Loki's name, over and over, and even Tony's not sure why he's saying it.

“Anthony,” Loki says, and the rare use of Tony's first name hits him harder than hours of dirty talk could. Then, nearly inaudibly, Loki says, “Tony,” sounding like he's savoring the feel of the two syllables on his tongue, and Tony closes his eyes, crystallizing this moment in his memory to hold onto.

The withdrawal of Loki's fingers pulls a noise out of Tony that he'll deny ever having made, later; then Loki is pushing him farther up the wall, bracing Tony's full weight against one arm, standing and pressing close to Tony's back, and Tony feels the blunt pressure of Loki's cock pressing against him. Tony bears down, opens, and after a long moment Loki's inside him as well as all around him. Tony feels like he's drowning, Loki's panting out breaths against his neck, and Tony says, voice cracking, “Move—”

They used spit for lube and no condom, and Tony can feel every single inch of Loki as Loki slides out and then back in. Loki shifts Tony's weight, curling his hands just under Tony's ribs and using the grip to move Tony with his thrusts, pulling Tony down as he fucks forward. All Tony can do from this position is push off the wall to rock back, roll his hips to smooth out Loki's thrusts, and clench his muscles tight around every thrust. The first time the head of Loki's cock scrapes over Tony's prostate, Tony loses their rhythm and drops his forehead against the wall, feeling Loki's hips stutter against his and feeling—feeling— _fuck_. 

Suddenly neither of them are talking—there's no smug repartee, no traded insults, there's just this, just rhythm and the rocking push and pull, just Loki breathing so close to Tony's skin that every exhale feels like a kiss. Tony loses track of time, loses track of what brought them here; he leans his head back, until Loki's forehead is pressed against his hair, and they fuck like that, as close as Tony can physically make them.

Loki breaks the silence first. “Can you come like this, Stark?” he asks, and it's like sex has fucked the dishonest smoothness out of his tone and left something more real behind.

“I can try,” Tony says.

The pace changes then, gaining speed, and Loki changes the angle of Tony's body until almost every thrust rubs across Tony's prostate. Tiny sparks of pleasure light with every movement, and Loki keeps going until Tony feels wrung out and caught on the edge of coming again. It's different, like this—Tony's neglected cock is a bright, livid red, and the lack of contact is nearly painful, but there's something gathering in Tony's spine and making his balls twitch, and he's so fucking close he could seriously cry.

“There,” Loki says, “let go. Let me give you this.”

Charitable as that is, Tony can't. He needs more. “I need,” he says, and starts to ask Loki to touch him, then stops. “Say my name,” he says instead.

“Stark,” Loki says, to the back of Tony's neck, and Tony shakes his head, wordlessly. No. He needs Loki to get this one—he's past words now. Loki's smart, though, Loki's so smart. He needs Loki's fantastic, terrible mind to work in his favor, this once.

“Anthony,” Loki says, “come for me,” and that's it, that's enough, Tony lets go and drops over the edge and comes. He's not entirely sure he doesn't scream while he does so.

Loki fucks him through it, fucks him after it, and Tony's post-orgasm buzz makes him smile lazily as he rocks back to meet Loki, summoning up the effort to keep moving until Loki finally makes a small, deep noise and loses his rhythm completely, filling Tony messily with come.

They sink to the floor like that, Loki no longer holding up Tony's weight, and Tony sits up just enough to pull off Loki's dick before he drops back down to the floor, resting comfortably close to Loki's body. Eventually, Tony's brain clears enough for him to realize that now he's sore, there's come on his wall, he's never took off his shirt and his pants are down around his knees, he's still moderately drunk, and he and Loki apparently aren't over after all. Well.

Tony sits up, suddenly feeling cold, and Loki sits up with him, meeting Tony's eyes. Once again, Loki's face is giving him nothing; his green eyes are watchful, and a little bit tired, but otherwise blank.

“I'm not doing this right now,” Tony says, voicing his thoughts out loud. “Puzzling out how you're feeling is hard, and I'm tired, so. I'm going to walk back to my bedroom, crawl into my bed, and sleep. You can stay or go.”

Tony stands, and hikes up his pants to button them. Honestly, he doesn't know whether he wants Loki to stay or not. What he wants is to not have to think about it, and sleep.

“Okay,” Tony says, redundantly, and turns around to walk away.

Halfway to his bedroom, Loki's long, cool fingers close around Tony's wrist—and Loki follows him like a shadow into the dark of Tony's room.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far and enjoyed, feel free to drop me a comment either here or on my tumblr: http://skollwolf.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, seriously, take a second and look at elvoret's amazing work: http://obscyr.tumblr.com/
> 
> The title for this story was taken from Florence + The Machine's 'Kiss with a Fist.'


End file.
